Darkest hour

Chapter Nineteen

It was a perfect summer's day, echoing warm memories of half-remembered childhoods, infused with the scent of grass and trees and heated tarmac; and it was only two days before Lughnasadh. Church sat on his favourite rock with the sun hot on the back of his neck and thought of how he would kill his closest, dearest friend. He'd weighed up the problem, on and off, for three hours, between checks on Ruth's condition, and he could still barely comprehend it.

"You going to sit out here until you turn into a crispy piece of bacon?" Laura had come up behind him quietly and had spent almost a full minute watching him silently, wishing more than anything she could connect with him on a level deep enough to help.

When he looked up at her, her heart went out to him at the desolation that lay in his eyes. Her first reaction was some asinine comment just to get a cheap laugh, but the weight on him was too great. "What's the big deal?" she said, pretending to look distracted.

He shook his head, barely able to bring himself to talk to her, but when he started it all came flooding out. "How do people deal with these kinds of decisions? You know, the big-shots, the leaders of countries, the people who make the world turn? You reckon they've got some kind of equation to make everything square in their minds? Because otherwise how can they live with themselves? On paper it looks great. You sacrifice this nameless, faceless person here and save this many lives. Simple maths. Any kid can do it. But when it's someone you know and care for, it doesn't balance out the same any more. The rational side of your brain tells you one thing. The other side says this person is too valuable to sacrifice, whatever the outcome." A long pause. "And that's the truth, isn't it? Everybody is too valuable. Life is too important. This isn't a decision for people. It's for God."

Her sunglasses stripped the emotion from her stare. "So what are you going to do?"

He cursed loudly, looked round as if searching for something to lash out at. "I'm going to kill her. Of course I am, and I'm going to damn myself for all eternity and I'm probably going to kill myself straight after."

Laura snorted derisively. "You know, I'm appalled you're even considering that." She grasped for the words to express the unfocused dismay she was feeling.

"Can't you get real? We're talking the End of Everything. The life of one person-" he made an overstated weighing act with his hands "-it doesn't balance. Any idiot can see it doesn't balance."

"I thought this New Age was supposed to be a good time for women more than anything else. Feminine values and all that shit after hundreds of years of testosterone stupidity. Look at her, in that house, what she's been through. You could at least have hoped it would be Veitch or the old git-"

"We've all suffered." He knew he was only arguing as a distraction; it wasn't even relevant. "I was tortured-"

"Yeah? How bad? That bad?"

"All right. What do you think we do? Wish upon a star? She's going to die anyway, when Balor comes through."

"Oh, fuck off. I don't know. But I know she's one of the good guys and it shouldn't be her." She walked off a few paces angrily, then turned and said, "Don't ever, ever tell her I said that, even when she's acting like she's got a bug in her head."

He had a sudden vision of when he and Ruth first met, when everything had seemed confounding, but the choices simpler. "What the hell am I supposed to be doing?" he muttered.

"You're the leader, Church-dude. Why are you asking me?" She picked up a handful of stones and began to hurl them out into the void without a thought for where they might land. "I'm just along for sarcastic comments and pithy asides. Go with your instinct or whatever you leaders do."

She threw the last pebble then turned and sauntered back to the house as if she didn't have a care in the world.

The dawn of the final day broke through the ragged cottage window in pink and gold, but when Church went to get a little sun on his face he saw the sky was painted red along the horizon; the folklore warning of bad weather ahead wasn't wasted on him.

At least the faint warmth refreshed him after the dismal night. He hadn't slept at all. Ruth had spent the long, dark hours in the grip of a delusion that had left her screaming and clawing at her face and belly until blood flowed. It had been almost unbearable to see, the cracking screech of her voice so dismaying he'd wanted to cover his ears and run from the place rather than listen to the magnitude of her pain or face the extent of her decline. But he'd stayed by her side for all that harrowing time, caring for her, doing his best to prevent her harming herself, and now he felt drained of every last emotion. Laura was huddled in a corner like a child, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted now that Ruth's ravings had subsided with the coming of the light. Several times during the night she'd had to leave the room, crying, unable to cope with what she was seeing. Church had pretended he hadn't noticed.

The faint breeze that came with the dawn stirred the stagnant air with a hint of freshness. He stretched the kinks out, then walked back to look over Ruth. Her sleeping face gave no signs of the terrible things he had seen during the night. Her chest rose and fell with an incongruous peace. She was beautiful, he thought, inside and out; it wasn't fair that she was suffering. For a moment he drank in that innocence and then a jarring thought crept into his mind: he could do it there and then. Smother her with the sleeping bag. Strangle her, gently at first so she didn't wake. It would be perfect; he wouldn't have to look into her eyes; he could remember her this way instead of twisted by the torments that were sure to come. It wouldn't really seem like murder at all, would it?

The thought hovered for a second and then he felt a twist in his gut so sharp he thought he was going to vomit. He couldn't do it now-he was too tired. But later, certainly; he had, at last, accepted it was an inevitability.

As he turned away so he wouldn't have to look at her, his eyes fell on the insane scribbling that covered the wall. From a distance the minute writing resembled some intricate pattern; swirls and waves like a Middle Eastern carpet. Only up close were the hidden messages revealed, incomprehensible, but with some sort of intelligence behind them. There was something in this observation which tugged at him, but he didn't have the energy to start getting philosophical. Instead he blanked his mind and allowed himself to be drawn in by the mesmerising scrawl, a Zen meditation where obvious meaning was discarded for an overall sense. He stayed in that state where all the words blurred into one mass for what must have been minutes, feeling the stresses of the night begin to slough off him, until he gradually realised he was becoming aware of certain words rising out of the morass. It was almost as if the wall was speaking to him. And what was it saying?

I love you.

A nice sentiment, he thought ironically. Perhaps Ruth had been wrong about something bad happening there. The house may have been a place where forbidden lovers trysted, or was that his stupid, sentimental, romantic side coming out? He thought he'd finally eradicated that on the hilltop overlooking Skye.

Church.

His breath stung the back of his throat, hung there, suspended. The word seemed to glow, then fade, so that he couldn't quite be sure it was his name he'd seen.

Marianne.

This time he felt sick. His head began to whirl and he thought he might pitch forward. Marianne, speaking to him. A tingle ran along his spine, warning him not to analyse what he was seeing too much or the spell might be broken. Just wait, he told himself. Be open to it.

For a moment or two he saw nothing else. His eyes started to burn from the effort of not concentrating on what was before him. He had that queasy feeling he always got when he looked at Magic Eye pictures.

Then: Be brave.

Be wary.

The end is

coming soon.

There was a cold sweat stinging the back of his neck. He wanted to ask questions, make some kind of direct contact, but he was afraid it would break the moment.

You have it

within

you, I always knew

that.

Don't fear for me. Don't

hold on to me.

Face the future.

Go forward.

Church wondered how long the words had been there, hidden in the garbled, idiot pattern, and he had never seen them till now; by accident. At the moment he needed them most. He knew what Tom would say: no accidents, no coincidences; there was meaning in every little thing. But if only he had seen it before, how much strength he might have drawn from it during the long, painful days they had waited there.

I

can see you even

when you

can't see me. We all

can.

There's a

reason

for everything, Church.

You just

have to see

it.

In that moment he wanted to break down and sob, all the repressed feelings of the years since she died, all the strangled emotions of the last few months, ready to burst out in one rush. But all he managed were a few, brief tears that burned his eyes and were easily blinked away.

I may be

trapped,

but they can't

hurt me.

And I'm happy now

they can't

use me to control

you.

Don't worry, Church.

I love you.

The message began to repeat like one of those tickertape electronic messages that run around buildings in New York. He stayed a few minutes longer, just to be sure, and then walked out into the pale sunlight, his cheeks still wet.

Her words had been few, but there was so much to take in; an entire worldview. He was overjoyed that she wasn't suffering, that the resilience he had admired was still there, but more than anything that she was still around, like an old friend, keeping an eye on him. And not just her; she had said.

We all can.

What did we all mean? He walked towards the edge and looked down at the flickering shadows moving across the landscape. For him, right there, at that particular moment, it meant the world. Never give up.

There's meaning in everything.

There's a reason for everything.

He only had to see it.

Church skidded over the grass and rock down the tor. He felt consumed by a renewed sense of purpose, almost courage, although he had never considered himself brave. Risking your life meant nothing when everything was meaningless; but now there was meaning. The clues had been around him from the start-even before-but he had never pieced them all together to accept the sublime patterns. Even the Fomorii, the antithesis of it, proved its existence. Tom had subtly attempted to guide him towards that illumination, Church realised, and now he had it, he realised why: the world looked different.

Now they couldn't afford to lose; not just for humanity, or life as they knew it, but for something so big it made even that seem insignificant. An awareness of that responsibility would have crushed most people; Church felt enlivened by a new sense of direction.

Halfway down the tor he paused at a huge boulder and slowly crawled out on top of it so he could survey the countryside beneath. To most eyes, the rolling fields would have looked a little darker than usual. Strange shadows flickered on the edge of vision, but beyond that everything appeared normal. Church's heightened perception, however, picked out the Fomorii's half-seen shapes for almost as far as the eye could see. It was as if an army had massed at the foot of the tor, ready for a siege on some mediaeval castle. For a moment he blanched at the prospect of what lay ahead; then he drove all thoughts from his mind and hurried down the tor.

His target was relatively easy to find in the stillness of the countryside where no cars moved, no birds sang. Waves of golden light washed upwards like some strange aurora borealis, gilding the surrounding trees; occasionally strange booming noises echoed among the hillsides as if a jet had passed over. Church kept beneath the level of the hedgerows as he progressed along the lanes towards the epicentre. He had judged rightly that there would be little or no Fomorii activity in that area. The fact that even they were scared should have given him pause, but he kept driving forward, working at the plan that had started to form in the back of his head. The risks were great-even being there was ridiculously dangerous-but at that stage bold action was the only thing that could work.

Close to the golden light the air was filled with an unpleasant charred taste. He dropped to his belly and wriggled forward until he could peer through a break in the hedge, every muscle tensed to flee in case he was seen.

Maponus roamed around the field, his path apparently random, but, on closer inspection, forming strange geometric shapes. A scattering of bloody bones radiated out from him in what looked like a blast zone. Church guessed when Niamh had plucked up the Good Son and deposited him here she had brought some of his victims in the backwash. Church watched intently. Sometimes Maponus dropped to his knees and scrabbled wildly at the turf. Other times he stopped to throw his head back and howl soundlessly. The chaotic rhythms of his madness were eerie to see: oblivious to the outside world, trapped in a repeating loop of thoughts. Occasionally they became so intense his face would dissolve into a swirl of wild activity in which Church saw snapping jaws, writhing things, razor-sharp blades glinting in the sunlight, then just a globule of unbearable light.

He looked away, suddenly queasy. Maponus' insanity was destabilising; it sucked at him, threatening to drag him in.

Cautiously he began to move around the perimeter of the field. How long would he have to search before he found what he was looking for? Could he have guessed wrongly?

He needn't have worried. Something hit him with the force of a wild animal, knocking him painfully across the road, pinning him beneath its weight. Stars flashed across his vision, but when he looked he felt a wave of relief. Yet the Bone Inspector's features spoke of a madness waiting to break out: he looked anxious, hunted, a man driven to the edge of survival.

Despite his age, his strength was almost superhuman. Church couldn't begin to wriggle out from beneath the wiry arms that held him tight. The Bone Inspector's eyes ranged crazily, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a feral grimace. For one moment, Church thought the custodian of the old places was going to dip down and tear out his throat.

"It's me!" Church gasped. "A Brother of Dragons!"

The Bone Inspector's eyes cleared gradually. A long drool of spittle dripped on to Church's cheek. "I know who you are, you bloody idiot!" he hissed. Cursing beneath his breath, he rolled off Church, instantly adopting the posture of a cornered animal, ready to fight or run. "What are you doing here, you fool? Do you want to throw your life away?" His voice was strained with tension, but it barely rose above the sound of the wind rustling the leaves of the hedgerow.

He gave a sharp nod with his head, directing Church to a field on the other side of the lane. They scurried through an open gate and rested against a metal trough filled with stagnant water. The Bone Inspector closed his eyes for a moment, his lined face suddenly looking a hundred years old. His shirt was in tatters and a filthy, bloodstained rag had been tied roughly around his left hand. There were numerous gashes across his lithe, suntanned torso. A brief shiver ran through him and then his eyes filled with his old clarity. "I've followed him up mountains and across rivers. I've waded through a swamp of blood, seen whole villages burning. I've lived on raw squirrel meat and drunk stagnant ditchwater. I've seen the kind of pain and suffering you can only imagine." His voice was filled with a passion that bowed Church. "And why? Because your idiot brethren dabbled with something they shouldn't! What did they think they were doing?"

"It had to be done-"

"Had to be done?" The Bone Inspector's eyes blazed furiously; Church thought the old man was going to hit him. "All that death and grief was a decent price to pay?"

"That's not what I meant." His anger grew hard. He thought of Ruth and the decision he had to make, of the world he used to inhabit where there was a clear distinction between right and wrong, and then came a sudden rush and tumble of regrets and bitterness. "You can't criticise me."

The Bone Inspector seemed taken aback by what he saw in Church's face.

"We're all wading through shit trying to put this nightmare right. Nobody has the higher ground. Nobody," Church said coldly.

The Bone Inspector looked away at the waves of golden light. "Pretty, ain't it? I can't see how we're going to put it right. When he was first bound under Rosslyn there was a whole load of my people carrying out the ritual. There's no way I can do it myself. I thought it was all sorted when those golden bastards came for him-"

"What happened?"

"There were six of them. Some of the big-shots, all light and thunder and faces you couldn't see. You could tell they were desperate to get him back. `Finally,' I thought, `they're going to start sorting out their own shit.' They'd got him cornered up near Aberdeen in what was left of a village. I was down among the ruins, trying to pull out some kid, but the poor bastard was already dead. And he'd seen me, and he was coming for me." The Bone Inspector looked down at his hands; they were trembling. "They'd opened up some kind of doorway in the air and they were going to drive him through. And then that bitch came out of nowhere. Crazy. As mad as he is." He jerked a thumb towards the wash of light. "There was a big flash, felt like I'd been hit by a shovel, next thing I knew I'm here."

Church felt a pang of guilt; he wondered if the Tuatha De Danann would punish Niamh for her actions.

The Bone Inspector looked up at him piercingly. "So what are you doing here?"

"Looking for You." The Bone Inspector's brow furrowed; Church smiled. "Listen, this is what's going to happen."

As Church moved speedily along the lanes back to the tor he was gripped with fear that in his absence the Fomorii would have swept up the mountain and taken Ruth and Laura. But as he neared he could see the slopes were still clear.

The hardest part of the return journey was a wide-open space at the foot of the tor and the lower reaches of the climb. Even though the power in the mountain kept them hidden from the Fomorii senses, plain sight was still a problem. He couldn't believe he had made it to the Bone Inspector and back without discovery; it left him wondering how powerful those Fomorii senses truly were. Perhaps they didn't need to hide on the mountain at all. Was it possible that they could creep away under cover of darkness and find another hiding place far away?

The blow came from somewhere behind him, lifting him high into the air. His body exploded in excruciating pain; there didn't seem to be any oxygen left in his lungs. He slammed down on to the grass verge and bounced into a barbed wire fence. The twisted talons snagged his flesh and tore. For a second he hung there suspended like a scarecrow, thought processes fragmented, aware only of the agony that fried through him. His awareness came back in jerking fragments. A deep, dark shadow was moving across the road. He looked up for the cloud, the low-flying plane.

It hit him so hard the barbed wire burst as it yanked out of his flesh. He skidded into a cornfield. The sharp stalks stabbed his back, the dust clouded round him. Next to his face on the ground a large black beetle scurried away from the disturbance.

Full realisation only came when he rolled on his back, trying to scrabble to his feet. The Fomorii warrior loomed over him. At first there was no sense of solidity, just an impression of an immense, sucking void about to enclose him. A perception shift came as if someone had grabbed his mind and twisted it through forty-five degrees. Suddenly there was bulk, the sound of armour plates clanking into place as if they were a part of it, that familiar, sickening zoo-cage smell. Still couldn't quite get a full fix on it. It was an enormous insect with dripping mandibles and multiple legs, something that was covered with fur, with glaring red eyes, talons poised. And at times chillingly human-shaped, though as big as a tank, with the blackest armour.

Church jumped to his feet, started to run. What could have been a powerful arm lashed out, catching him full in the stomach. The pain was so great it felt like his internal organs were rupturing. He came down hard again, deep in the swaying corn. He had been so arrogant, thinking he had escaped detection. It must have been stalking him, checking he was defenceless.

His thoughts fizzed out as he suddenly found the energy to roll and run. The beast thundered like a bull, missing him by an inch. And then he was away, leaping wildly through the corn, knowing that he couldn't outrun it for an instant. The vibrations from its pounding feet felt like a mini-earthquake beneath him, but at least it allowed him to tell when it was almost on him. He threw himself to the side, and it crashed past; its size and momentum prevented it turning easily.

Anxiously, he glanced up at Mam Tor. It was close enough for him to sprint towards it. The beast was so big he might be able to lose it on the slopes where a sure foot was more necessary than strength. But if the Fomorii hadn't already established where they had been hiding, he couldn't lead the creatures back to Ruth and Laura.

He leapt out of the way again. This time he cut it too fine and the beast clipped his foot, spinning him round like a top. Dazed, he glanced across the field. If he didn't go to the tor he didn't stand any chance at all. He only had a second to make up his mind; it was no choice. He headed for the centre of the field, accepting his sacrifice with an equanimity that surprised him, gloomy that his great plan would never come to fruition, afraid of what the future held for the others. But all this was wiped from his mind in an instant when the beast smashed into his back.

He went down, blacked out for the merest instant, and then came to with the sensation of being lifted into the air. The beast's grasp was biting into his flesh; he felt the skin around his waist burst and blood trickle down his legs.

Where's Ryan when you need him? he thought ridiculously.

And then a strange thing happened. It was suddenly as if he could look directly into the creature's mind, understand fleeting thoughts and emotions that were so alien they could barely be described as such. He knew as surely as he was aware of his own name that the creature hadn't alerted the other Fomorii, that it had no idea where Ruth and Laura were. The sensation both sickened him and fascinated him. But he knew what caused it: the reviving essence of the Tuatha lle Danann and the corruption of the Fomorii mingling within him had made him something more, something closer to them.

The creature seemed to be surveying his face; perhaps it was reading his thoughts too. Slowly it raised what at that time seemed an enormous gauntleted fist and took his left hand. Then with a sudden flick of its wrist it snapped back all his fingers at right angles, a sign of strength to show how frail he was in comparison. The cracking vibrated through Church's body and he cried out in agony. It threw him to one side just as he blacked out again.

When he came round a few seconds later it was advancing towards him for what he knew would be the killing blow. It stopped a foot away and he waited, almost relieved that the pain that racked his body would finally be over.

At that moment there was a smell like burning oil. The creature threw its arms in the air and let out a howl that sounded like rending metal. Church covered his ears from the shockwave. Desperately he tried to understand. Was it some kind of bestial roar of triumph? It sounded like pain.

The Fomor's body was more insubstantial than those of its brethren, suggesting, he guessed, its particular power. But at that moment it seemed to harden into the armoured shape, now seen more clearly than he had done before. Its black helmet gleamed in the sun. In the eyelets, white staring orbs ranged with such an expression he was left in no doubt that it was in the throes of some terrible torment. Pustules erupted all over it, even on the armour, and began to burst and release a foul-smelling ichor that sizzled where it hit the ground. The warrior's hands went to the side of its head and for a second it stayed in that position, its eyes still rolling madly. And then, like an overinflated balloon, it burst open. Globules of black flesh streaming with ichor shot across the field in all directions; somehow most of them missed Church. He had a glimpse of a twisted skeleton that bore no relation to the creature's outward shape. Then the bones became like candle wax, melting and flowing until there were just indescribable heaps scattered across flattened patches of corn.

Church didn't have to guess what had happened. A few feet away, previously hidden by the warrior, a flock of birds whirled madly. Gradually they flew tighter and tighter, reclaiming their true pattern. They fluttered in a formation so concentrated it was unnatural that they didn't crash into one another. And finally they settled into something that resembled the shape of a man, still flying round wildly like a whirlpool of feathers, beaks and talons.

"Mollecht," he muttered through the haze of his pain.

The powerful Fomorii tribal leader stood silently; Church didn't even know if he could speak. Whatever hideous experiment had transformed him into primal energy that could only be contained by the continuous ritual flightpaths of a murder of crows had pushed him even further beyond the boundaries of his already unknowable race. The Fomor had destroyed the warrior by opening it up to release his essence, the terrible power that seemed to mimic the effects of contagion. Church recalled their confrontation at Tintagel and his blood seeping through his pores; the only escape had been to plunge into the sea.

But why had Mollecht destroyed the warrior? They were of the same people; Mollecht had the same contempt for humanity as the rest of the Fomorii. The pain from his broken fingers was washing in waves up his arms. He leaned forward and vomited. All that had happened was that he'd swapped one form of death for another, and he guessed Mollecht would be infinitely more cruel than the brutish warrior. On the verge of blacking out again, he glanced around for other Fomorii coming to help capture him, but the surrounding fields were empty.

And when he looked back at Mollecht, the dark cloud of birds was already moving off through the corn. Where the creature had stood, a large, black sword stood embedded in the earth.

Church's head swam; he blinked away the tears of pain. Mollecht was setting him free? He limped forward to examine the sword, without actually touching it. It was definitely Fomorii; one edge featured the cruel serrated teeth that would inflict maximum damage in a fight. There was also an intricate pattern on the blade, scored so finely it was hard to make out unless the light was in the right place, but it appeared to be a pattern of magical symbols of some kind.

Mollecht was now just a black smudge following the hedge line. There was no doubt Church was being allowed to escape and that the sword had been left for his use. What did it mean? After the Kiss of Frost he was no longer so naive that he would take an obvious Fomorii gift. But this time his instincts were telling him the sword was not a threat to him, although he had no idea what the ulterior motive was. A weapon would certainly be useful. He weighed up his options, and decided to go with his instincts after all. Tom would have been proud of him, he thought.

Fighting against encroaching unconsciousness, he tried to blot out the pain by using the sword as a staff to help him limp back towards the tor.

Shavi stood on the edge of the parkland that rolled up to Windsor Castle filled with a relief that pulled him back from the brink of exhaustion. For days he had played a cat-and-mouse game with the Fomorii, who knew he was in the vicinity, but hadn't quite been able to pinpoint him. It had meant advancing, retreating, doubling back, searching for each tiny break in their lines; on one day he had advanced a mile, only to find himself five miles back by evening. He had slept under hedges, curled in the branches of trees, once even dozed on a pile of Sunbrite at the back of a coal shed. There were times when he thought he would never reach his destination at all.

The Fomorii were everywhere, but only to his advanced perception. Most people seemed to be continuing with their lives, oblivious to the unusual shadows, the bushes and trees that were there one day, not the next, with only a vague feeling of unease to warn them things were different.

As Lughnasadh approached the Fomorii were growing more desperate. Shavi had noticed a light in the sky over Reading to the west which had the ruddy glow of an enormous conflagration. Strange, worrying sounds were occasionally carried on the wind, but they were too brief for him to recognise their source. But where were the army, the air force, the civil defences? He had seen no sign of any opposition. Perhaps they had already crumbled, or else there was a vacuum at the top, the Government paralysed or fallen apart at its inability to confront anything so alien and powerful.

But finally he had seen the tower of Windsor Castle in the distance, the flag waving in the summer breeze, and he had skipped into the back of a lorry which had brought him directly to the park. Even so, time was short. Already the heat of the day was starting to fade. But if he acted quickly and Cernunnos could help, he could still commandeer a car that would get him back to the others before midnight.

Halfway across the parkland he was aware of a rejuvenating atmosphere that seemed profoundly magical. Clouds of butterflies danced across the grass and the air was clear of any stink of pollution, despite the proximity to the Capital; it smelled and tasted as fresh as a mountaintop. The sun had blazed from a clear blue sky all day, but there was no sign of parching on the ground, which was lush and verdant. A languid quality eased his troubled thoughts; he felt something wonderful could happen at any moment. He found himself smiling.

When he moved beneath the cool shade of the trees everything seemed to take on an emerald tinge. There was a fluttering among the branches high above his head which he at first thought were more butterflies, but when he looked up he caught sight of a group of gossamer-winged people, minute but perfectly formed, their skin dusted green and gold. They weaved backwards and forwards, sometimes merging with the leaves until they were completely invisible. One stopped to watch him curiously, then laughed silently before rushing away. He moved on, wishing the whole of the country was like this.

He had no idea where the Great Oak had been, but he was trusting his instinct to lead him there. Yet as he progressed he suddenly heard the sound of faint laughter and happy voices. He ducked down and moved through the undergrowth until he came to a sundrenched clearing. On one edge a teenage Asian woman lay in the arms of a young man with a skinhead haircut. From the disarray of their clothes it appeared that they had been making love. The woman rested her head on her boyfriend's chest and traced circles with a long nail on his bare, muscular stomach.

"No one can ever take this away from us," she said.

He chuckled throatily. "Who'da thought it, eh? You and me, no worries."

"I can't believe we got out of Birmingham. Your dad-"

"He's not my dad."

"You know what I mean." She tapped him sharply on the chest. "When that van came crashing into us on the motorway, I thought-"

"We had a guardian angel. I told you that."

She rolled on her back and shielded her eyes from the sun, her fragile features framed by her long, black hair. "I reckon things are going to get good from here on in."

"There's a lot of strange stuff around."

"Doesn't matter. This is about you and me. All that shit's behind us now." She gave him a tight hug. "There's no one to tell us what to do any more. We stand by each other, we can face up to anything. We've proved that."

He started singing Stand By Me then burst out laughing at his feeble attempt. She gave him a short punch in the ribs for teasing. "So," he laughed, we going to get married?"

"Could do. Sooner or later. We've got plenty of time for that. We've got a lot to see, lots to do."

She rolled over and kissed him passionately. Shavi felt suddenly like a voyeur and crept away quickly. But the tableau stayed with him. Strangely, it filled him with so much hope, and it wasn't just because they were at the start of their lives, on the cusp of the great adventure and a great love. After a moment's thought, he realised what it was. The woman had been right. The terrible upheaval, the failure of an entire way of life, none of it mattered. The truly important things were still continuing as they always had. Those things could never be beaten down. It was a simple thing, but at that time, in that magical place, it seemed like a great revelation to him and he was fired to tell the others when he got back to them.

For the next hour he searched among the woods. Every now and then he felt a strange sensation at the base of his spine, as if he were crossing some invisible electric barrier. Eventually he became sensitive enough to it to follow the waves which progressed in a spiral pattern, growing tighter and tighter, until he arrived at the epicentre.

He was in a grove among the wider wood. The trees rose up on either side to form an arched roof high above his head, and that deep, emerald light infused everything. A cathedral stillness lay all around. No wind touched that place, no blade of grass stirred. Even the calls of the birds sounded miles away, as if they had been muted by a dense wall. This was the Green Home, the place where the Great Oak altar had once stood, where men had worshipped the all-consuming power of nature for millennia. Unconsciously he bowed his head.

Almost by accident his eyes fell on a chipped, dirt-engrained horn lying in the grass; he was convinced it hadn't been there before. His palms were sweating with anticipation; he wiped them on his shirt before picking it up. It felt uncommonly light, too normal to be what he expected. He had at least anticipated some sense of great power or crackling energy that burned his fingers when he touched it.

He weighed it in his hands, knew it was only a delaying tactic, then slowly raised it to his lips. When he blew, the sound that emanated was strangely hopeful. It washed out through the woods in a cleansing wave.

For long minutes everything remained exactly as it was. Just as he was about to blow one more time, another horn answered, from far, far away. This one had a regal ring to it, but there was also something that sent a shiver through him. A few seconds later the wind began. It howled mournfully into the grove, forcing him to take a step back; it was chill, as if it had rushed hundreds of miles from a desolate mountaintop just to be there.

Shavi shuddered as he slowly turned, searching among the swaying trees, his hair lashing around his face. Something was coming; he could feel it deep in his chest; a heaviness. The branches moving back and forth, the noise; distracting. And then movement. Out of the corner of his eye, the merest flicker that could have been just a shadow. He turned sharply, but it was already gone. It was his other senses that picked up the true signs: the musky odour of horses on the wind, a muffled but unmistakable whinny, the thud of hooves on the wood floor. Dark shapes flitted in and out of the boles. They were drawing closer, circling him, but still not enough of the world to be easily seen.

Then they did break through. There was an effect like a heathaze over a road on a hot summer day; shapes shimmered, fell into relief, and suddenly he was aware of horses among the trees. The Wild Hunt had arrived.

He had been sure they could only materialise in that form at night, but in that place their power appeared much stronger. Another blast of the horn close at hand; all the hairs on his neck instantly stood to attention. Away beyond the horses in the deep shadows of the wood was the terrible baying of hounds yearning to be unleashed.

Shavi stood his ground as the horses came stamping and whinnying just beyond the edge of the grove, their eyes glowing fiery red. The riders still wore the furs and armour and carried the long poles topped with sickles he recalled from the grim pursuit across Dartmoor; he looked away from their shrouded faces. The ranks parted and a larger horse moved through, its nostrils steaming despite the heat. And on its back was the Erl-King and his face was not hidden; Shavi saw bare bone, scales like a lizard instead of skin, and eyes that glowed with an inner yellow light, the pupils just a serpent slit. His stomach tumbled in response.

As the Erl-King dismounted, he was already changing. His body grew bigger, hunched over like an animal prowling, an odd mix of fur and leaves spreading across his form. His eyes moved further apart, his nose wider, and then stags' antlers sprouted from his head. Finally Cernunnos stood revealed, the awe and terror of nature beating like a heart. He made a strange hand gesture and the other riders fell back into the trees.

"Who summons the Wild Hunt?" His voice was like the sound of the winds on a mountaintop, his presence radiating such power Shavi felt like bowing before him.

"I, Shavi, Brother of Dragons." He lowered his head in deference.

"I know of you, Brother of Dragons."

"I come on behalf of my sister, Ruth. Her situation is dire. Once, you said she could call to you in the harshest times. I am here before you now to ask for that assistance."

Cernunnos hunched down over his massive thighs and scrabbled at the soft loam. Gently, he sniffed the breeze. "A face of the Green lives within her, and she has carried out the Green's True Word to the best of her abilities, even at times of great trial. The Sister of Dragon's heart is strong."

"Will you aid her?"

"I will." He snorted; Shavi could smell his thick animal musk, even stronger than the horses'. "What ails her?"

Slowly Shavi explained her capture by the Fomorii, the implanting of the black pearl, the suffering she was enduring as the medium for the rebirth of Balor; and as he spoke Shavi had the strangest feeling that Cernunnos already knew everything that was being said. After he had finished Cernunnos nodded slowly, grunting and snuffling. "It was only to be expected that the Night Walkers would seek to bring the Heart of Shadows back to form, but the Sister of Dragons deserves better than to suffer their corruption."

"What can be done?" Shavi asked. "Other Golden Ones have refused to have anything to do with it. Some have said there is nothing that can be done."

"Little can be done, it is true. The Heart of Shadows is a vile canker. Once established, it grows without respite. It is too hard in its corruption to be eradicated."

"Then what?" Shavi stared deep into Cernunnos' gleaming eyes, trying to make sense of what he was saying. "Is it hopeless?"

"Nothing is hopeless. We Golden Ones guard our secrets with pride, and this is mine: the Heart of Shadows can be removed without harming the Good Sister." Shavi's mood brightened at once. "The ritual must be carried out tonight, before the turn of the day when the moon is clear. And a sacrifice is called for."

"Anything," Shavi said without a moment's thought. "I will do it."

"Anything?"

Shavi nodded. "She is a good person. She deserves more."

"And you do not?"

"If there is anything I can do to help, I must."

Cernunnos watched Shavi's face like an animal surveying something which could be prey or predator. Then he turned slowly, making strange, unnatural gestures with his left hand, and when he was facing Shavi again he was holding a small, smoky-coloured bottle with a wax stopper. "Here is the radiance that will burn out the Heart of Shadows."

He held out the bottle. Shavi took it gingerly. "What will happen?"

Cernunnos' eyes narrowed until the light within them seemed like distant stars, but he said nothing.

The bottle felt odd in Shavi's hand, not like glass at all. He slipped it quickly into his pocket. "On behalf of Ruth, I offer my great thanks for your aid. On behalf of all the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons."

"Go with speed, Twilight Dancer. I have always entertained your forebears well."

Shavi turned to leave, then paused, wondering if he dare give voice to what was lying heavy on his mind. "When the Wild Hunt has been summoned, someone must die. Is that correct?"

Cernunnos said nothing; in the background the Hunt was growing restless.

"There are a young man and woman nearby. Do not take them."

Cernunnos eyed him curiously for a moment, then nodded slowly in agreement. He looked towards the sun, now moving towards the horizon. "When night comes, the Wild Hunt will ride."

Though he had saved the young couple, Shavi felt the weight of his guilt: there would be yet another death on his conscience. Even the friendly powers that had colonised the world had no real respect for humanity; they agreed to whims with the gentle weariness of patrons who could turn suddenly if the mood took them. There would be no freedom until they were all driven out.

He bowed slightly, although it was a little curter than his greeting. Cernunnos made some strange animal noise, then moved back towards the riders, his shape slowly metamorphosing back into that of the Erl-King. After a few paces, he turned back towards Shavi, an enigmatic expression on his face. "I hail your sacrifice, Twilight Dancer, and I wish you well in the Grey Lands." And then he was gone, twisting and changing like sunlight on water. The horses moved away into the trees, the baying of the hounds more insistent; terrifying.

Shavi's shoulders sagged briefly, but then he pulled the bottle from his pocket. Here was confirmation that things were not all bad; that there were miracles among the nightmares. All he had to do was to reach Ruth before midnight. He checked the angle of the sun, then started to run across the parkland towards the nearest road. He would ride like the Devil was at his heels.